Watercolors
by Kupo3.0
Summary: Any tears wouldn't be real. Maybe watercolors could make something real, even if the artist wasn't. ONESHOT, my first oneshot, Dark, please R


_**Watercolors**_

Kupo3.0: I'm disclaiming here that I don't own the characters. Thanks for coming. I just felt like writing a oneshot, cause I just had the major epiphany of the idea, and I had to do it. I'm just in a mood right now and it's not to write on my other fic, so please enjoy it, and don't forget to review when you're done.

-xXx-

She decided to draw. She drew as if it were her breath.

Her mind started to get to that place as she flipped her pad open.

_Why do I do this to myself? Why do I even think this?_

She reached for a handful of pencils, selecting a 6B. It felt as tender and soft as she did then.

_If I'm not real, if I'm nobody, why do I think, or feel, or…am I even worthy to wonder if I have the emotion to love?_

_It's so simple, in a calculating way even, leaving out my non-existent emotions. He's real and I'm not. He can't be expected to love something that isn't real._

Lightly gliding, an oval appeared, with a jawline soon to follow.

_If there was any chance of him caring, he'd come back. Cause that's the way he is. He always listens to his heart, it steers him._

She stretched the lines out, shooting a more springy image off the head, like his hair.

_His hair. It was such a beautiful brown. Brown is a lived in color. Icy blond is untouched, unloved. Brown has been hurt, brown has dirt. Brown lives, blond dies._

Her pencil tip broke, she was pressing too hard. She had a tendency to do that when she tried too hard to feel. It was too fragile, not aware of the fact it could shatter so easily.

She rose and smoothed her white dress, crossing the room to grab tubes of watercolor. They didn't hide like acrylic. They left everything visible, any flaw, any mistake. She hoped its truthfulness could somehow seep into her brain.

A small brush dipped into water, and stirred the paints on a pure white palette. It was nice to see colors. While trying to make a brown, it became more of a warm caramel.

_Like the other._

_I know he's supposed to be mine. He's not real and I'm not either. The real one deserves his perfect real one. But I've tried so hard, I have. But he's not Him. He's not the One. _

Her small brush laid such tiny, precise strokes.

_Yeah, he's a part of him, but he isn't everything. With Him, I want to be with everything about him. I want all or nothing. _

Her strokes grew bolder, broader.

_Why am I not good enough? I gave him back everything! Everything!_

The colors got darker, richer.

_I could have had him. But I cared enough to give him back what he wanted. He thought I was his One. His Only. But I was kind to him and gave him everything back. That's how much I care. I'd give up all my happiness for him._

She started passing out of the lines and edges of his portrait, spreading outward.

_Why!?!? Why wasn't I good enough? Why was she so special that he remembered her when I erased her memory and I wasn't good enough to remember after erasing my memory from him?_

She stopped using brushes.

Raw hands and fingers worked much better. They rooted her down, feeding her power up from the paper.

_Who thought me, someone who can't feel, could imagine she had so much emotion!?!? So much caring, so much-_

_**Say it**_

_So much affection_

_**Say it**_

_So much-_

She clenched her hair and ran her fingers down her face, disregarding the browns and reds staining her.

It felt good to be tainted. She was too white for too long.

_**Say it**_

Flipping her paints everywhere, splatters flew through the air, scattered and destroyed.

_I'm not allowed to feel, but I don't care anymore._

_I CAN-_

_**Say it… out loud.**_

Wretched, torn, and broken, a scream escaped from her throat.

"I can love you! I know that I can, love! Love, love, love. Words, real words, and real feelings. What else is this but love!"

Bolting from the room, she smeared blues across her face. Blue like his eyes that didn't tear missing her.

Left in the disaster of paints and paper, the dirtied room with the table in the middle only had one picture, and despite the chaotic extra colors on top the picture was still visible. Because watercolors don't hide anything.

A brown-haired, blue-eyed boy, smiling, reaching out a hand.


End file.
